The first thing I do on most days of the year is make coffee.

It’s nothing fancy. I make a pot for myself and my wife.

The ritual is the key. First I pour the water into the coffee maker’s chamber. I grind the beans. I spoon about 10 tablespoons of coffee into the filter.

Then, I brew.

And while it’s brewing, I’m contemplating. I’m puttering around, letting the various thoughts in my mind sift in and out of existence. I rarely write anything. Sometimes, I put on calming music.

Most days, it’s just the sound of the coffee dripping neatly into the carafe.

There is an incredible sonic opportunity. The sound of coffee dripping, for whatever reason, is one of the most soothing and calming sounds I can think of. I sit there, I listen to the plunk plunk of the coffee stream as it hits the bottom of the carafe.

The smell of the coffee is intoxicating, permeates the room.

The actual drink isn’t even as good as the process of making it.

It’s the ritual.

It’s the morning magick.